


A Billion Years Away From You

by Effluvium



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Acceptance, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood, Blood and Injury, Cal's only mentioned okay, Cara Dune is a good friend, Character Death, Death, Din Djarin Needs a Hug, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Good Parent Din Djarin, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Kind of a songfic?, Pain, Protective Cara Dune, Protective Din Djarin, Sad, very depresso sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:42:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28208499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Effluvium/pseuds/Effluvium
Summary: I thought I was his home.
Comments: 12
Kudos: 111





	1. Is This What Grief Does?

**Author's Note:**

> "My Tears are Becoming a Sea" by M83 is The Mandalorian's song and you can't change my mind about it.

It echoed in his ears; the dinging of the elevator, the door’s slam, the saber’s ringing. In his head, Din knew it was shock, knew that he was dissociating, but he didn’t care.

He’s never wanted to run away so badly.

The X-Wing was already gone; zipping God-knows-where through space, lightyears away in milliseconds. His son, gone in milliseconds.

His life, gone in milliseconds.

He just barely registers Cara’s hands on his shoulder, the _Din, I’m so sorry_ , and he wants to run, to fly into the air. He’s never hated space more than he does right then, at that moment.

His pauldron felt heavy; the Mudhorn glinting painfully just at the edge of his peripheral vision. Clan Djarin. Clan Mudhorn. A Clan of Two.

Where’s that now? Where’s that purpose? He’d just gotten him back, and now he’s gone again.

The tears sting his face, thousands of micro-cuts littering his cheeks. He’s never felt more shame, more anger, more hopelessness.

Is this why the Mandalorians hated the Jedi?

_My son, my kid, my only._

Fett’s eyes are dark, nearly matching his own. There’s no peace in them, and there’s a newly founded sadness. It screams _I didn’t want to see your face_ and _you shouldn’t be seen like this._

Din Djarin doesn’t care. He doesn’t have it in him to care, not with the ball still bruising his hand, and certainly not with a saber on his belt.

_"You are as it’s father."_

Now that he thought of it, he liked being a father. Missed it, now.

Fennec Shand looks at him, at his tear-track face, and looks away; this is wrong, incredibly wrong, and she’s never been so uncomfortable.

The chair isn’t the same.

It isn’t the same shitty leather, the same constantly-falling-apart cushions. The walls are too nice, too pristine, free of rust and crayon.

There’s nowhere to put the knob, and it hurts, and Din Djarin cries again, sinking to the floor next to the black dashboard. He misses the Razor Crest and the way that she was always broken, kind of like him.

He misses his son.

What if he’d never taken Grogu to Tython?

This question popped up in his head a lot, no matter the amount of time that’d passed. This was year three, and there it was, pinging off the walls of his helmet, giving him a headache, bringing more tears to his eyes.

What if?

It was selfish, really; he knew that Grogu was where he belonged, where he needed to be, but that didn’t change that ache in his heart, or how his hands always felt empty.

_I thought I was his home._

Was that so selfish?

It’s year four when his left arm stops responding; the morning is nothing but rain and he’s freaking out, looking at his fifty-one-year-old face, wondering _why._

Cara accompanies him to the medic, and he hates how her face contorts at the words of _old brain damage_ and _that was a shit patch job_ and _how long have you been living like this?_

Din just sighs. How long had he been living like this? He was already so tired, so burnt out.

“Four years.”

Bo-Katan Kryze finally beats him; it takes her eight long years, and he’s a crippled, aging man by many standards, but she does it.

He doesn’t know why he’s been trying so hard to keep the throne from her all these years; maybe part of it is that his only priority has been gone, and he needed a new one, something to take his mind off of Grogu, off of his son.

“I’ve beaten you, Din Djarin.”

It’s said with two blaster shots in his side and the gun pointed up his throat; his helmet off, grey hairs outnumbering the brown, fifty-five-year-old eyes staring into her blue ones. She hasn’t aged like him, and maybe it’s the lack of grief, or the lack of sadness, or the lack of real, tangible loss.

“Yes, you have.” Blood is soaking down his side and his left arm is half out of his permanent sling. He can see the Mandalorian medics, the rookies, jumping on the balls of their feet, itching to help him, to staunch the blood.

It hurts, knowing that; knowing that those kids just want to help him. Flashes of green skin, of wispy white hair, of inhumanely large eyes.

_The stars and the planets are calling me._

“I yield to you, Bo-Katan Kryze.”

The saber left no hole in his conscious once it was gone; no missing weight on his belt, no empty feeling in his hands. He never liked swords, anyway.

He knows of the criticism she received; it took her nearly ten years, and only then did she win against a crippled, near-elderly man. That was no fight, not by their standards.

But Bo-Katan had grown in those years.

_“How’re you holding up?”_

_“Didn’t really want to shoot you that much.”_

_“Hope I didn’t cripple you anymore.”_

_“I let my anger get the best of me.”_

_“You’re the worthiest opponent I’ve ever faced.”_

He still feels empty, lost, grief-stricken; Cara told him that with time the pain would lessen, that the directionless feeling would fade and he’d find a new purpose. For a while, he’d thought that purpose was ruling Mand’alor.

It wasn’t.

He knows he’s spiraling, but he can’t catch himself.

There’s rust on his ship, but he’s ordered to get it cleaned with maintenance every year or so; _this isn’t the Crest_ , he reminds himself. This isn’t forty-seven-year-old Din Djarin with fifty-year-old Grogu, flying somewhat aimlessly around the galaxy, looking to fulfill a mission that’s already been fulfilled.

This is fifty-nine-year-old Din Djarin, former leader and ruler of Mand’alor, sitting aboard his too-shiny method of travel, rubbing the ball between his fingertips so aggressively that there’re holes in his orange gloves.

He can’t be bothered to sew them again, not for the millionth time, not for the billionth, or the trillionth.

Cara’s older now, with grey hairs of her own, but she’s with him when he makes the decision.

“I’m going to amputate it.”

He doesn't even know why he kept it in that sling, letting it weigh him down.

She can’t watch; the rebel shock trooper, who’s seen him in worse states than this, holds his right hand and closes her eyes. Din Djarin watches in sick fascination.

He can’t feel a thing, and he’s reminded of what a truly incredible thing the brain is.

The arm is off within ten seconds and there’s hardly any blood; the appendage is skinny and gaunt after years of unuse and it’s weird, seeing it detached, but he’s never felt better. It’s another weight, another hindrance ridden from himself.

Cara’s also there that night, when ghost pains ride up his left side, leaving him writhing and sobbing. She’s whispering, telling him _it’s okay, you’ll be alright_ , and he’s so grateful he didn’t lose her on that light cruiser all those years ago.

She holds his head to her chest, and there’s such an assurance there that he’s reminded of his mother, so long ago, holding him as a crude fever raged through his body.

_I’m slowly drifting to you._

“Thank you, Cara.” He’s gasping, wanting nothing more than to clench his left hand, but he can’t, it’s not there. “Thank you so much.”

In fifteen years, Din Djarin is sixty-two. His left arm is made from the purest beskar and it makes him feel truly young, especially now, with the blue saber raging across it, only centimeters from his bare face.

The child has black hair and black eyes, and he seems so angry, so upset; even in his old age, Din disarms him quickly, throwing the saber across the field.

“Where is he?” He demands, stepping over the child. “Where’s my son?”

And it’s then that Din smells it; the stench of blood, of bile, of piss. The dead are near, in the temple behind him, and Din doesn’t want to go to it. He wants to run, to fly, to never think of Yavin-4 again, but he can’t

He has no choice now.

Grogu hadn’t grown much, in the fifteen years they’d separated; he’d grown maybe four inches, and he had more hair, but his eyes were just as inhumanely large as they were when he first found him on Arvala-7.

Now he’s found him again, laid to rest in a puddle of his own blood, a single jagged strike across his chest.

He faintly hears himself speak, _Grogu?_ coming out in an ugly, unsure gasp, and it all becomes too real when he strokes one of his ears; he’s gone.

He’s dead.

He’s never coming back.

_“I’ll see you again, I promise.”_

“No,” his voice cracked, and he picked him up, hands going all over, not knowing where or how to hold him anymore. “No, no, no, _no_.”

Tears ran fresh down his face, stinging on his micro-cuts. It was the light-cruiser all over again. That hopeless, helpless feeling, barbed wire in his throat.

“Grogu, _please_.” Din’s rocking him frantically, head bowed over the green, hiccuping as he desperately calls out, “Grogu, please, I’m sorry, _please don’t leave me_.”

_Limp arms. Limp ears. Limp body._

Din tries not to think about it, or about how Cara found him [it’s always her; she’s always there, she’s his rock, his constant] rocking his son’s dead body, sobbing so horrifically in his state of catatonic shock.

He tries not to think about the body wrapped in the blue blanket he’d bought on Nevarro, the one he’d wanted to give the child as a gift, as a _welcome home_. The one imprinted with frogs and white lilies.

“You still gotta eat, old-timer.” Cara’s voice shakes, and she’s trying to hand him a plate of food, and he wants to throw up, to cry some more, but he sees the way her hands shake and takes the food with as much grace as he can muster at that moment.

_Sightless eyes._

They don’t talk while they eat, but they grasp each other’s hands in this warm sort of remembrance.

_“I will give my life to protect the child.”_

Stars dance around them, streaks of light making his head hurt. Tears fall again, and he wonders how he’s still producing them, after all these years. 

After today.

For the next twelve years, Din Djarin visits his child’s grave on Nevarro; every seventh day he’s there, placing white lilies on his grave, watering them so they keep growing, keep flourishing.

He finds that he needs more help with the simple things; remembering the passcode to his weapons locker, getting out of bed in the morning, polishing his beskar without getting dazed. He’s so tired he doesn’t notice any of it until Cara, his rock, lays a hand on his shoulder.

“We’re going to the medics today, okay? Just a check-up.”

If there’s anything that doesn’t pass by him, it’s how young she still looks; she’s still buff and strong and can still handle a room full of troopers or brawlers.

He can’t. Not anymore.

Is this what grief does to a man? What loss does?

“Early-onset dementia” is the diagnosis, and another thing he remembers is feeling so lost, so sad, so defeated. All this heartache, just to forget the life he’s led.

Cara’s there every step of the way; he’s no less mobile than he was twenty-seven years ago, but he can’t remember who Greef Carga was, or the medics from Mand’alor that kept him company after his battle with Kryze.

A woman named Omera steps through his door one day, and he doesn’t even remember her. He feels bad, watching her cry, nodding, walking out the door with Cara. 

Ten minutes later, he can’t remember the reason she walked out.

Din Djarin gets twenty-eight years after his son is taken from him. Twenty-eight years of grief, of loss, of sadness, and he’s so, _so_ grey at the end.

“Cara,” his voice is rough; he doesn’t sound elderly. “I’m tired, Cara.”

Cara smiles, looking up from her novel. There’s a new look in his eyes, and he stops drawing on his notepad. He sits up, looking around for something, before digging an object out of his right pocket.

He hands it to her; “Can you put this on his grave, Cara?” He looks confused as he says it, and that’s when she knows.

“Yes, Din.” Her voice is cracking, and there’s a deeper sort of grief, one developed from watching her closest friend fall apart for nearly thirty years.

He places his hands in his lap, looking at her, brown eyes bright for once, as if at peace. “Thank you, Cara. Thank you for everything.”

She smiles, tears falling from her eyes. Barbed wire in her throat. She hugs him tighter than she’d ever hugged him before, holding back a sob.

“You can sleep now, Din.”

He nods. “See you in the morning?”

“See you in the morning.”


	2. Zero-Four-Zero-Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grief of her own.

That morning came slowly because she didn’t sleep through the night; Carasynthia Dune was awake until the heart-shattering moment of zero-four-zero-three in the morning, when she felt the air shift.

When she felt Din Djarin stop breathing, his left pinky halting its usual twitching. When she felt him relax, and the lines on his face disappeared.

Din Djarin, former bounty hunter and ruler of Mand’alor, father of one, was dead.

To say that she cried would be an understatement; the only reason anyone knew he’d died was because of the feral, gut-wrenching keen that came from her throat. 

_“I’m tired, Cara.”_

She brought his body to her’s, hugging him so tightly, breathing in the last bit of cologne that she could; it felt like ages, this moment, this grasp. Only later she would realize how cold he’d already become.

Their graves were in her backyard; buried beneath the black sand, small headstones erected in peace. No words on either, just objects, mementos, memories.

A thousand lilies on one, an engraved pauldron on the other.

Cara sat now, knees brought up to her chest, underneath her chin, and she stared at the simple stone, remembering how Nevarro’s purple and blue skies had reflected so beautifully off of Din Djarin’s armor, and how he’d been happy.

Cara Dune wishes she could’ve seen that happiness one more time.

It burns in her hand, the reminder.

The ball.

It’s not even polished anymore; there’s a permanent layer of grime and sweat that she can’t wash off, no matter how long she runs it under soap and water. Orange dye is smudged on it permanently from his gloves. In the twenty-eight years, he’d managed to put a million minuscule scratches.

_“Can you put this on his grave, Cara?”_

Is this what it felt like for him, all those years? For this stupid knob from a broken home to be the only thing to have left of his son? 

Cara doesn’t realize she’s spiraling until Greef lays a hand on her hand.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

_Yes_ comes to the forefront of her mind, but she can’t speak it. Greef Carga is elderly and he’ll die soon, too, but it won’t be the same.

“I need work.”

It’s a few months later that Cara realizes that “work” does nothing but make it hurt more.

Every moment she’s out on the field, she’s picturing him right alongside her. She can’t look Bo-Katan Kryze in the eye, not when Din used to be there, so long ago, so worse off.

Without fail, she returns to Nevarro; she returns to her little house with the nice view and nice furnishings and the two too-clean graves.

_Din always polished his beskar._

She should clean these stones, right? She shouldn’t let them pass on in history, right? They were important, indefinitely, infinitely.

It’s two too many stones.

Cara’s own grief has been building up over the years, over the mind-numbing routines and unchanging tasks. She hated the New Republic, but more importantly, she hated Luke Skywalker.

Greef tells her that she hates the circumstances, the absence of Din Djarin and his child, and she supposes that’s true, too.

A man with red hair [like Bo-Katan’s?] holds the ball for less than three seconds before gasping, dropping it harshly on the table, choking slightly. He tells her off the grief and heartache that radiates from it, how he’s never known something so sad, so wrong.

Cara snorts. “You have any clue where it’s been?”

The man is somber, sober. “Yes, and I’m so sorry.”

Cara’s so angry that she doesn’t know what planet she’s on, just that Luke Skywalker is there, on a cliff a few hundred feet away, alone.

Now that she’s here, she’s lost; what does she say? What does she do? 

_You destroyed them._

_They’re gone because of you._

_Do you know the grief you caused him? The grief you caused me?_

_You took so much from me._

There’re tears in her eyes and barbed wire around her throat. She pulls the coat tighter around herself because the ocean’s spray is harsh, and she’s so upset at the lack of warmth.

_Warm hugs; wheezing laughs; saddened smiles._

“What happened to ‘I will give my life to protect the child’?” It’s not necessarily what she wants to say, but there’s so much fury in her that the irony comes out first. 

He says nothing in return.

“Do you know the grief?” Cara yells, voice pitching. “Twenty-eight years. Din Djarin was never the same, did you know _that_?”

_“Thank you, Cara.”_

“And for what? For his son to _die anyway_?”

_“Thank you for everything.”_

“Do you know how much you’ve taken from me?” Cara’s right behind him now; she puts a hand on his shoulder, and he turns. Din Djarin stares back.

The next second, Cara’s awake in her too-comfortable bed [ _zero-four-zero-three_ ] and she screams, crying so harshly her voice gives out, hands clenching around the ball, tears falling in ugly globs.

Now, she sits at their graves, ball in hand, sun rising in blues and pinks and purples. Salt tracks stain her face and her hair is oily, unwashed, entirely unkempt.

“I watched you unravel for so long, Din.”

_“Want some soup?”_

“My own grief’s just now catching up, y’know? I get it now.”

_“Are you sure you don’t want an escort?”_

“It’s kind of… encompassing. All-consuming. I feel like I can’t breathe, or think straight.”

_“Until our paths cross.”_

“Can’t really believe you did it for twenty-eight years… and I’m sorry you had to, Din.”

_“See you in the morning?”_

Carasynthia Dune stands slowly, placing the ball in the dirt in front of his stone. “I’ve gotta live the rest of my life, okay? Eventually… I’ll see you again. I promise.”

_“See you in the morning.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Not me making myself cry with my own writing for the first time in my life.
> 
> Also, no; Cara Dune and Din Djarin are friends, and that's that.


End file.
